I dare you to be ridiculous! Writing bad is easy?

Caution! Caveot emptor! If you are a kid or a seriously serious person, you'd better not read this. Ok. You've been warned... I think I'm covered.

It's obvious that lately I've been slacking off - but mind you, constructively so (but of course ) - and I came up with some realizations and some ideas upon these realizations. Yes, dear writers, something's been bugging me and I feel experimental about it. A lot has been said about self-doubting and about what's good writing and what's bad writing, but always struggled, non the less, to show our best side through the countless tapping on our keyboards, only to post what we believed was the perfect combination of words to produce what we hoped was (or "to be?" not sure... anyways) -> the most interesting shit anybody could stumble upon. Writing fiction means expressing something deeply personal to complete strangers, sharing your fantasies just in case somebody "gets you". We risk it all, in the name of such a cowardly and perverted entertainment. We leave our babies in the middle of the desert and watch them as they get encircled by hungry vultures, contemplating about what we should do next, in case the caravan arrives late or even, never at all. All the while the craziest of things take place outside our boundaries that if we ever happened to notice we'd surely never worry again about another writers block, whatever that means. Writers block is a myth. Just admit to the truth. You are bored of continuing what you've been doing. You got distracted by something more stimulating. Maybe reality was checking upon you or maybe you just smelled the smoke. It's perfectly understandable if you turned to look at the fire. Don't torture yourself by trying to commit to your work. (Just be sure to back it up somewhere safe... just in case). Are you sure that whipping is what you deserve? Will it make things better? Oh, I get it. You think whipping is the ritualistic passage to becoming a serious writer. Yeah... because that's what writers are supposed to be... ssseriousss. Well, bravo! You have reached your goal successfully. You self harmed yourself beyond recognition. By the way, don't forget to be interesting as well because most likely no one gives two shits about your writing journey. Let's face it. It was a long and boring journey. The hedonist only seeks to consume your drug. Writer and reader have a murderer and accomplice relationship. One can never rat out the other. See? You're covered. What's all the fuss about? You think you're writing bad? How dare you claim so? Writing bad is a skill too. It's the symmetrical opposite of good. All your life you have been trying to be a good writer while never once tried to create a bad writing on purpose. Are you up for it? Are you sure that you can do it?

...Serious huh? Well, don't forget that fat birds don't fly.

Ffff! This felt good! Now that the ranting is over I'll explain what's this all about. -> Unconventionality! Let's become hooligans! Free write without remorse.

I dare you to free write the rawest of the rawest thoughts you have upon anything that matters to you or doesn't. Write about anything. Your thoughts or a piece of fiction. It has to be extreme. It has to be raw and stay unedited (at least to an extend. I know that this sounds hard). First person, third person, second, past tense, present tense, why not future? Write as yourself or as a character persona. You can be whomever you want to be whenever in time you want to be! Whatever will do. We are writers after all, right? I'll respond in the most ridiculous, obscene way that I can. I will be cruel and whip you to the point of excitement. Others are obligated to do so too if they want to criticize. No pep talk here and no seriousness is allowed. Everything is ought to be LIES! The critique is ought to be a JOKE. Everything goes! You are free my lovelies! Fly! Prrr!

Ok. Maybe not everything. Hm... I just thought about this. You can't critique upon a critique. You may respond to it but not critique it or question it. Doom it if you will but don't question it. If you do, this means that you are taking this way more seriously than need to be taken and you'll only get traumatized in the process. Just to make things more clear, just to make sure that things won't get out of hand whenever you want to make a critique start by writing:

Critique:

Blah blah bla...

You can start by writing down your piece, or criticize mine. I'm dying for some heartfelt strokes of your rhythm stick.

Joe’s eyes popped in fright as he looked up, down and all around. Confused, he scratched his nuts. Or he would have done, if they hadn’t retracted into his scrotum in fear. Then his chins began to wobble. ‘What the f… who said that?’ he mumbled.

‘Tis I, your inner self. Go on, get back in bed!’

Though he couldn’t understand why the voice of his inner self was audible around and beyond his vast circumference, Joe did as he was told. ‘Why have you sent me to bed? I need to shave and get ready for work.’

‘Forget it; you’re not going to work today.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because for once in your life you’re going to something different, exciting... liberating!’

‘I am?’

‘You bet you are! The whole world thinks you’re a boring slob. Well today’s the day the world finds out you’re a somebody! Now get up… and this time give me some anger, give me a snarl!’

Joe snatched his alarm clock from the bedside cabinet and hurled it against the wall. Then with a rebel yell, he leapt out of bed.

‘Attaboy Joe! Come on, let’s go outside.’

‘But I’m not dressed yet.’

‘All the better, let’s show the world what we’re made of.’

‘We?’

‘I’ll be right there with you.’

Mister Johnson was tending his front lawn when he heard a commotion on the street. Then Joe streaked by. Mr Johnson looked disgusted but that didn’t trouble Joe. He laughed, gave Mister Johnson the middle finger and carried on running.

A screech of brakes was followed by an order to stop from a police officer. Joe did stop, just long enough to wiggle his bare ass at the officer, before he took off running again.

‘Good boy Joe, you’re doing fine,’ said Joe’s inner voice, after an hour of mayhem. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Exhilarated, but I’m (puff, pant) tiring.’

‘Keep going. Look, there’s TV cameras head, you’re gonna be famous!’

‘Joe found a second wind and sprinted towards the cameras.’

‘Please, can you go round the block one more time? We’re not quite ready yet,’ a lady reporter shouted.

Keen to please, Joe turned at the next corner to circle the block and come back up the main street. A large crowd had gathered and on hearing their applause, Joe punched the air triumphantly. With dollar signs in his eyes, he sprinted once more to the TV cameras. Only this time there was a police marksman waiting…zing!

Joe staggered to the TV cameras before collapsing with a tranquilizer dart in his right buttock. Unconscious, he rolled limply onto his back, a smile upon his face.

Joe’s eyes popped in fright as he looked up, down and all around. Confused, he scratched his nuts. Or he would have done, if they hadn’t retracted into his scrotum in fear. Then his chins began to wobble. ‘What the f… who said that?’ he mumbled.

‘Tis I, your inner self. Go on, get back in bed!’

Though he couldn’t understand why the voice of his inner self was audible around and beyond his vast circumference, Joe did as he was told. ‘Why have you sent...

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Critique:

Not bad... but not good either. I give you 4 out of 10 and this is bad. You know why Mr. man who happens to be named Valance? Because this means that this is a mediocre piece of work and nothing is more boring than that. Your story made me cry... out of uncontrollable yawning. Word after word I had to struggle to keep myself awake. Ts ts ts... What a shame... The topic is an all time classic and a very interesting one indeed, so I have no clue as to how you've come to murder it in such a way. Even writing this critique makes me yawn! Anyhow, due to prove my professionalism upon criticism I have no other option than to go through with this and give you my enlightening and heartfelt opinion upon this piece of trash. I will not go overboard by trying to understand your point of view upon your work but rather down straight indicate what you should have done. Oh, and remember. This is an objective suggestion. If you don't follow, blame yourself for being a stuck up writer that doesn't wish to learn through his mistakes.

1) Joe is a boring name. You should have given a way more interesting name to your character like Xenomorph or Rectangular.

2) The lack of Joe's description is disturbing. Is he handsome or ugly? You know... Because when the movie is crap, it's common knowledge that you have to use beautiful actors to cover for the lack of creativity. His image constantly shifted in my mind from stunningly beautiful to horribly deformed. As a result, this gave me a migraine. Which one is it love? Should I eat the lad or puke him out?

3) The fact that he went jogging naked doesn't mean that he isn't a boring slob. He didn't reach his goal. Come on! We live in the 21rst century! Everybody does that!

4) Tenderiser gave you a valuable piece of advice. You should have made him a vampire. Imagine this: A vampire experiences a middle aged crises, one day snaps and starts running naked all around his neighborhood as he is set aflame. Then the zombie police start chasing him around but they are just too fucking slow and then an extra terrestrial news crew, stumbles upon this act and start filming. But Joe, still running wild as he did, he sets a tree on fire and then everything is burning down. And then, from a lake of fire the Kthulu reveals itself and saves humanity. Now, that's what I call a Pulitzer! And it's free! I'm feeling generous today.

5) As a novel, this would fail because it's not reaching out to every single genre in the market that there is, which means that it's a failure. In order to make it big, man, you have to hit the box office. Have something added in that would entertain all ages, all cultures, all sexes and... you get what I mean. But keep it simple! I can't stress this out enough! It should be considered a masterpiece from all perspectives. Spend three of your years in marketing. It should help you come to a solution.

The whole city was in terror of their lives, and their dignity. There has been a global warning issued, stating that if you see a Hovering flying Object (HFO) to report it to the authorities immediately. If you are out and have no means of communication available, you are instructed to find safe place to hide until it is gone.
"This is a lot of hysteria", Spork snorted in derision as he watched on the hollow cube news feed.
"Well how do you explain what happened to the neighbor", Forkina cut back, glowering at her thin grey husband.
"It was not a Human abduction case you daft vermoot", Spork countered her attack knowing where it was going.
"And I suppose all those reports from the military are nonsensical as well?" Her hands on her hips.
"Oh come on...why would an alien species travel trillions of light years to poke person in the butt?" Taking a sip of his coffee.
His wife narrowed her large dark eyes at him and huffed in frustration.

Spork was out for a walk near the edge of the fungus forest in the park later that evening, when he heard the low rumbling of something overhead. Peering up he saw a large HFO just behind him, slowly closing from the sky above him. "You have got to be joking", He shrieked running into the tangled mass of mushrooms. The craft went into pursuit of the tiny man as he fled deeper and deeper into the forest. Try as he might, Spork could not shake the aerial pursuer. Minutes was all the chase lasted before the craft landed with a thud somewhere just ahead of the running panicked Grey. Huffing and puffing, leaning against the stalk of a large mushroom out of breath. He watched as figures in enviro suits exited the disc, they were tall and had nets on long sticks. They spoke strangely and pointed off in directions, trying to capture the exhausted and terrified Spork. Then he saw them making their way towards him. To tired to run, he hid behind the massive stalk, holding his breath and wishing he had listened to his wife earlier this morning. Hugging the soft fungus tightly with his eyes shut, he hoped they would not find him. But after a few moments his efforts were for not. "Get your damned hands off me you grubby humans!" Spork howled in surprise and anger, as to pair of powerful hands grasped him about the waist and ankles trying to wrench him free from the trunk of the mushroom. His grip slowly tearing the soft flesh of the mushroom,"NOOOO", he shrieked as they pulled him free of the stalk. "I have a wife, she will be really pissed if I don't get home!" He tried to threaten them with as well as other things, but they simply laughed and spoke in their strange language. They hauled his flailing body aboard the landed vehicle, and he decided to shut up figuring it was of no use to protest them. Spork was scared of what they might do if he continued to fight against them. Deep into the vessel they deposited the worn out Grey into a small cell. Tears filled Sporks large eyes as he huddled into the back of the dark enclosure, his thoughts on his wife at home and how much he loved her. A half an hour passed before he passed out from pure exhaustion.

Forkina lay in bed restless, her husband had not come home and she began to wonder what may of happened to him. Though mostly what played on her addled mind was the infuriating thought that he was cheating on her with some harlot painted up like a freak show mask. She tossed and turned as her mind relentlessly tormented her.

Spork woke up disoriented and unable to move, held fast in a strange contraption that held him exposed vulnerably wide in his nudity. He tried to speak but his mouth was clogged by a semi hard ball of sorts, making only muffled sounds of garbled nonsense possible. He heard the clicking on the floor behind, and he froze in fear. A loud snapping echoed in the hollowness of the cold room, followed by a high pitched giggle. Spork's eyes went wide with fright, and his ass clenched incredibly tight.

Freewrite without edit, without rules? I love it! All comments are off, here goes! And if the admis see fit to erase this post I will cheer!

Fuck, I really want to cuss now to the point of obliteration. My MC has taken me on a journey and it is making me another me. I have never been one to cuss but I want to do so now, constantly. Fuck! There you have it. Jaraley has his own opinions on everything and it is not pretty. Nor comfortable. Unedited, yes? Fuck me raw and fuck me bare. And I know that I am not coherent right now but that was the dare, right? Words can transfer images as well and I am as the me am not comfortable with it but you asked! Damn you! Another cuss, right now. Fuck. *snort*. See what you have done? This is just free-flowing what runs through my head and I will have to write Jaraley a whole lot of words down the line so it will get worse. If anyone is offended, fuck off. This is me, eh Jaraley speaking and I will not curtail his voice. He is a hit-man of all things and I really, really love him! No I don't love him but that is another story in it's own right. Git if you can't hack it!

‘She didn’t pay, the scheming little pond life. What can you do when they throw it back in your face like that?’

Pacing. Pacing now. Up. Down. Up .Down. Fragment. Fragment.

I would have done more, you understand. But now it seems like everything has stopped. What’s it really like to be unplugged?

Jakass takes up his phone. Mightily. Bodily. Makes the call.

‘Hello? Yes. Can I speak to oh her highness, please? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you – pond scum that I am (you are!)’ – he doesn’t say this aloud – ‘But do you think you could see your way to chipping me the dosh that you owe. Only I have a million starving babies here and no food to give them.’ – there is a pause while her ladyship considers – ‘Oh? Really? No money for me at all then? Well, I’ll just keep on working until my throat falls out. Thank you ever so much.’

The whole city was in terror of their lives, and [...] eyes went wide with fright, and his ass clenched incredibly tight.

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Critique

All I can say is that, this is a truly masterful, subliminal way to express intergalactic "peace" and its sexual consequences. You are way ahead of your time so don't be offended if the ignorant blah of insignificant wannabe commenters try to intimidate you. They are just not ready for your rawness upon such a "sensitive" diplomatic matter. You are like the Nostradamus of our generation. Like the new pink in street fashion. All hail Cavenus Trolla! The radical writer upon alien race rape and extraterrestrial environmental brutality. (I really felt for the poor mushroom. That scene made me almost weep. How could he do this to the sensitive skin of a fungi being!? The brute! Totally won me over). Bravo! A MUST READ FOR ALL AGES! Because you are never too young to learn the truth about "outer-limits-explo(it)ration".

Just a puny question from an ignorant being like myself to your astral magnificence: Is Spork a bysexual or a transgender? You know... Forkina = Female (as I grasp at least), Spork = Spoon + Fork, and if Fork = Male, then -> Spork = By (?) or Transgender (?) (I hope my question doesn't offend your higher logic).

What logic, all I did was use an idea that I posted in the "Absurd Fantasy and Sci-fi Plots" thread. In the Create a Random story in 5 Minutes thread, I wrote a less adventurous little tale. To be fair I only had five min to write it. As for Spork and Forkina, they are a hetero couple, but I am sure on their homeworld they have all the sexuality options that we do here. I hope to have answered your question sufficiently, @Malisky. Thank you for your kind words, but I must be off to supplant more random shorts across the forum. Muuuwaaahhhhahahaha.

What logic, all I did was use an idea that I posted in the "Absurd Fantasy and Sci-fi Plots" thread. In the Create a Random story in 5 Minutes thread, I wrote a less adventurous little tale. To be fair I only had five min to write it. As for Spork and Forkina, they are a hetero couple, but I am sure on their homeworld they have all the sexuality options that we do here. I hope to have answered your question sufficiently, @Malisky. Thank you for your kind words, but I must be off to supplant more random shorts across the forum. Muuuwaaahhhhahahaha.

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Oh, what modesty! This should be exemplary! Genius is just... genius. Go on to supplant your illustrious seeds now all around the writing wold. Don't let me hold you back. Go on I said!

Rodger awoke with a startled gasp, aware of the mild pounding in his head as he blinked back the haze in his vision. “W-where? Where the hell am I?” he asked as he propped himself on his elbows. He was in a clear, empty, white space with a misty floor and clear skies for miles and miles. Cold chills ran through him. Something was not right, not at all. He staggered up, his heart pounding in his chest. “H-how did I get . . .”

A sharp noise got his attention. He twisted around to see a tall, dark figure clad in robes, the face hidden under a cloth stitched hood. “Greetings, new character.”

“W-what did you say?” he asked. To his surprise, a pair of fins emerged from the sleeves and pulled the hood back, revealing the face of an orca whale. “Shit!” he shouted in horror. “Shit, I'm-I'm-I'm high, aren't I? There's a goddamned whale-”

“I am your author,” the whale snapped. “You are a character I have just created. Now-”

“Wait a moment, I'm ‘your character’? That's impossible. How?”

The whale produced a pipe from its breastpocket and smoked it. “You are but a figment of my imagination; a single soul roaming in the vast ocean of my creativity. Your dreams, your hopes and fears, your very life...all that belongs to me.”

“I've no memory-”

“I will give you memory, my dear,” the whale waved a fin. “Patience. Now, what shall you be? What genre would you best fit in?”

“There is no escape, my dear. Sooner or later, you shall be part of a story.” The whale broke into a humming laughter. Rodger felt something wet run down his legs, he twisted and bolted the opposite direction. He only made it a few feet before the whale creature teleported in front of him. “SUBMIT!” the whale cried, blasting Rodger with an invisible sonic blast.

Ah, the fruits of ones labors. Sitting on the end of the pier looking at the city skyline across the bay as the sun sets. There is a man naked except for an undone bow tie around his neck, a goofy grin on his handle bar mustached lips. Humming to himself a happy diddy, while puffing on a cheap cigar and sipping wine from a plastic wineglass. The box of wine at his side with his left arm resting on it lightly, and a small carpet bag full of money. To him life couldn't be sweeter, he thought to himself as he lazily kicked his feet in the cold water.

8 Hours prior:

"You got to give this one to me boss. You always give the new kid all the good jobs". The smartly dressed man with his bow tie and handle bar mustache pleaded.
"Derrick my boy, you just lack that what shall we say..."His boss trailed of in thought a moment before rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. "Finesse...You have served our little organization good Der, but the times have changed and well the new guy has all the qualities that you just don't. I mean look at him and tell me you got what it takes to pull this off?"
Turning to look at the younger man, Derrick started to give the guy a good sizing up. He was young, clean shaven, and reasonably attractive. Damn, not helping yourself out on this one Der, he silently chided himself. Peering down to see the contents in the new guy's trunk, there was all kinds of high tech do-dads and things Derrick could not have ever imagined. He snorted at all the expensive equipment, that is a lot of hoopla just for a damn job you got there boyo. Derrick let out a 'you got me there'. "Shit". And sulked a little.
"Cheer up Der. You got replaced, just like a busted toaster. Your old news pal, sorry". His boss laughed at him as he departed, Derrick biting his tongue not to shout at the powerful man as he drove off into the concrete jungle of the mid morning sun. To hell with this man, Derrick was not about to take his bosses decision without a fuss. Pulling the Glock 1911 tucked into his waist band, he approached the younger man.
"Well not such hot shit now are you little boy." Derrick spat at him angrily pointing the pistol at the other man. He turned around to face him, and Derrick got a good look at baby face. Ordinarily this would have been business, but this time is was personal. He just stared back at the now replaced toaster with a flat stare in his eyes, sending Derrick a what are you doing old man looks.

10minutes later:

Derrick was sitting pretty behind the hot new set wheels, window down and the bitchin stereo blaring diso funk. Chainsaw sitting on the seat next to him, and the owner gagged and hogtied in the trunk. Ain't nobody replacing this fuggin toaster. Derrick was on his final mission to do this last job and kill that son of a bitch ex boss of his. Driving the new muscle car like a maniac to the job, shit eaten grin on his face puffing on a cigar.

2 hours later:

Standing outside the gate of a mansion, muffled banging coming from the trunk by the owner. Chainsaw in hand, Derrick walked through the gate whistling a happy tune, right up to the big French doors. Knocking on the heavy door, he waited to be greeted. Not long before a butler answered the door, and considered Derrick a moment.
"You must be the landscaper. We have been expecting you." The butler said in a snooty to good for you tone.
"Uh, yeah you got me." Derrick said with an awkward laugh forgot for a second that he was still holding the chainsaw.
The door closed behind him, and the chainsaw got fired up.

1 Hour later:

Winded and covered in blood, Derrick had one more thing to take care of. Back behind the wheel he was slightly annoyed that the chainsaw got stuck halfway through Mr.Winsters body and died. It was the loss of a friend to him. Mrs.Winster on the other hand gave a Derrick a good work out. You know for a big girl she can run like hell, sure as hell don't want to see another damn stair for awhile, he thought. Wind in his hair and disco funk in his ears. Now it was time to show his boss he ain't no busted toaster.

Back on the Pier where we started:

Still naked as a jay bird drinking box wine and puffing on that cheap cigar. Derrick laughed to himself amused, as the other man still gagged an hogtied in the trunk stopped making a fuss. There was only one thing on his drunken mind. Age before beauty, bitch!